Gaza diary part 26: ‘There is still space for acts of kindness, moments of joy’

Tuesday 21 November A woman I know once wondered about what life would be like if tears were coloured. If there was a specific colour for tears of joy, sadness, anger, despair and helplessness.

We have reached a stage where it is not a surprise to see someone crying in the street. They might have lost someone, they might have lost their home or maybe they have no place to go. The list could go on and on.

I leave early every day to start searching for anything useful. The shops open early to welcome all the lost souls. I call us the lost souls because we don’t know who we are any more. We had jobs, dreams and somewhat normal routines. Then suddenly we had to leave, and found ourselves in places we have never lived in before. Now we are facing the unknown. Our minds and souls are lost.

I see a man bringing a big bag with Saj bread. He starts calling out to let people know that he has something to sell. I run and reach him first. I ask him for some bread and pay him. Just like that. Then many people start running towards him. I take the bread – no, I hug the Saj bread – and pass through the gathering crowd. I have a big smile over my face. For almost half an hour I keep walking, not focusing where I am going. I’m just feeling happy.

I admire how they manage to tune out the distraction and fear for a while to enjoy being a family A tear falls down my face, it does not need a colour. It is not a tear of sadness. We have reached a stage where getting bread easily is a victory, and it was a tear of gratefulness. I was grateful.

I pass by a small shop that sells purses and scarves when a small scarf catches my attention. I have the same one. In fact, I have several, but in different colours in my home in Gaza City. I tie them over the handles of my luggage to mark them after one time I had bought a bag in the most unique colour of red. When the bags were coming out in the baggage claim, I saw at least five bags exactly the same and since then, I decided to be creative.

I go inside and buy one of the scarves; to give myself hope I might travel again. The shop owner asks me which colour. I let him choose. He gives me the pink one. At home, I knot it around one of the “escape bags” we have ready. Today, it is an escape bag; tomorrow it will be a travel bag, to a new destination.

I am walking with Ahmad when we pass a bombed house. The house has collapsed and looks like a pile of giant Lego pieces. The surprising part is that there is one part of the house that is still perfectly fine – the kitchen and the room next to it on the second floor fell in one piece over the rubble. Even the kitchen sink is perfectly fine.

I stop for a while to look at the scene and think of the owners and how they would feel every time they pass by. I bet there have been a lot of happy moments in that kitchen, cooking meals for family gatherings, and maybe gossiping about what’s happening. The next room could be a playroom for the children or maybe a teenager lying on their bed thinking of their crush. Then it hits me: did the residents of the house make it out alive? Or were they sleeping when it happened?

Palestinians inspect the damage of a destroyed house following Israeli airstrikes in the town of Khan Younis, southern Gaza Strip, 22 November.

Photograph: Mohammed Dahman/AP I am in the room when I hear the family outside talking. It seems that the oldest granddaughter has been suffering from a terrible toothache and no painkiller is helping. It is good that they had painkillers, because I have noticed that pharmacists give the customers only one or two pills to ensure they have some left for anyone else in need.

“No clinics are working,” her father is saying to her mother. “There are no doctors working these days. What should we do?” I feel very sorry for the girl and her parents who can’t help her, and I cannot stop thinking about the many children, with more serious problems, whose parents cannot help reduce their pain.

Then I remember, when I was at one of the shops, I saw a piece of paper stuck to its entrance. It said that in urgent cases of teeth pain, a doctor is available. I took a photo of it, so I check my phone and give the father the number. He is surprised: how is it that the newcomer, who never lived in this area before, knows about it. I tell him it is an intensive course – I am spending hours every day going back and forth, checking shops, street vendors and any place for resources to survive. So, it has become normal to know this information.

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Tonight, I choose to be hopeful. I close my eyes to try to relax, and I hope for a better tomorrow He calls the doctor. They come back later and tell us that they took out one of her teeth. The doctor prescribed a certain medicine that they luckily found in one of the pharmacies. I ask her if it was painful; she shakes her head. I feel happy that she is OK.

I go outside again, and I meet a young man. We start chatting and learn that he has evacuated with his wife from Gaza City. He tells me that he works as a marketing manager for a foreign company, anddue to the current situation, he hasn’t worked in over 40 days.

He was surprised when the manager sent him his salary with additional money. He said that he felt shame for receiving money for work he hadn’t done. The manager told him that his job will be secure no matter how long the war lasts.

I was glad to hear about such kindness. For a second, I wanted to take his phone number, maybe we could be friends one day, but then I decide: no, if it is meant to be, we will meet again in Gaza City, and we will be glad we both made it through this alive.

Our host family surprises me. Despite all the miserable things, and the daily struggle to secure bread, drinking water and water for toilets and washing; the struggle of dealing with fear, stress and uncertainty, they manage to gather – grandparents, children, the wife of the oldest, and three grandchildren – and for an hour or two at night they talk, laugh and sometimes sing and play games.

They always invite me and my sister to join but we politely refuse. We want to ensure we don’t invade their privacy, especially now that the whole evacuation situation has gone on much longer than we anticipated.

I don’t know how to describe it, but they are people of simple dreams and simple lives. I admire how they manage to tune out all the distraction and fear for a short while to enjoy being a family.

Lying on the couch reflecting on my day, I am glad that amid all the misery, there is still a space for acts of kindness, signs of hope and moments of joy.

I believe that hope is an inner feeling; but from time to time, it should be a decision. And tonight, I choose to be hopeful. I close my eyes to try to relax, and I hope for a better tomorrow.

A mural of the late Palestinian leader Yasser Arafat amid the debris left by weeks of bombing in Rafah.

Photograph: Mohammed Abed/AFP/Getty